Thunder On The Hill

Draco couldn't really believe it, really. No, he really couldn't. That he -the genius that he knew himself to be, was stuck working with the daftest twat in all of London, or, hell, the world, muggle and wizarding lines be damned; preposterous!

And Blaise Zabini? Was at home. Sleeping. Because his work for the day was finished. Why that bothered him really, he wouldn't look too deeply into.
Except that it was blatantly obvious to all involved when he had screamed "GRANGER DID ALL OF YOUR WORK FOR YOU YOU SAD EXCUSE FOR AN AUROR PIECE OF SHITE!” And something about betting on the fact that his brain felt as good as new, seeing that he’d never actually used it. Or something. Along those lines. It wasn’t as though he was upset that Granger had chosen Zabini over him for this project.

No. Because he hated the uptight little twit now as much as ever. Stupid little way she had a swotty remark for every single thing. Except that, he'd often prided himself in the fact that the little know-it-all had seemingly, all though begrudgingly, finally admitted to her self that Draco was the best partner to have as far as productivity and efficiency went. She was a know-it-all, after all, and she, hence, everyone else, knew that Draco was the best. The Bee's Knees. Until now.

He growled slightly as the blonde woman beside him yakked on for the seventh straight minute about the trouble with Sneakoscopes. “Some people aren’t aware they’re being sneaky. It’s innate. In this case, Sneakoscopes will fail. It’s really quite like that with magic in general, I think, because--” blah, blah, blaaaaah.

He just didn't get it. They'd had a partnership. Not a friendly one, but business didn't have to be friendly. They worked well together. --Silently and quickly. How he liked it. Minus the occasional screaming matches, of course. But even they were a plus. Working hard required a bit of venting. Granger was perfect for that.

And, okay. So perhaps he had gone a bit too far last time, with that comment about her parents. So the picture was obviously of two Pugs. And yeah, he did know that that was certainly not what muggles look like when they grow older. -But hell! It had been a joke, and she had reacted quite predictably, having gone ballistic as she does, throwing a right wobbler and screaming about snogging Pugs all throughout Hogwarts. It was all really perfect and going according to plan until she'd burst into tears. And bloody Zabini had swept to the rescue.

That had been a fortnight ago. A fortnight in which she'd refused to work with Draco, or even look at him, and Blaise and Granger had apparently become BFF. It sickened him. And now he was going to have lunch with them tomorrow. Together. He repressed the need to shudder right out of his skin.

“Look, Molls, baby,” He said, smoothly cutting her off mid-pointless-sentence while running his hand casually down her thigh, and effectively causing the pretty little pureblood to blush crimson. “This is all really very fascinating, but we have plenty of time for work tomorrow, no?” He smiled as dashingly as humanly possible and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. The petite little blonde promptly turned to a puddle of goo at his feet.

“B-but there’s so much … yes, okay I suppose. It is late isn’t it?” The blonde replied breathlessly, and then swallowed, hard. She leaned closer; unconsciously he was sure, and breathed a bit more quickly than normal. Clearly, she’d read the intended innuendo in his voice loud and clear, and very much agreed. “Wonderful, he said huskily, allowing her to lean in just an inch closer before standing abruptly. He heard a muffled gasp as her face collided with his crotch.

Trying dearly not to laugh at his own antics, he nudged a very mortified blonde witch away from his person slowly. Going for the gold, he let out an awkward cough.
“I-I didn’t mean to--”
“Yes, of course not.” Draco said quickly, looking very disturbed indeed. He stood there, awkwardly for a moment, before giving her a quick, condescending tap on the head. If possible, this seemed to mortify her further.

Draco happily allowed the uncomfortable silence that filled the room build to a horrifying intensity. Not on his part, of course. He collected his cloak and wand with purposeful, steady movements. A quick glance in her direction confirmed that she was very nearly contemplating leaping from the rather high window to escape the embarrassment of her obvious presumption.

He couldn’t blame her, really. Even he felt slightly embarrassed for her. He was, after all, Draco Malfoy. The very same Draco Malfoy that could have any witch, whenever he wanted. A man like that took the liberty of making the first move, and unless you possessed a dear wish to be blatantly and publicly rejected, well, you waited patiently for your turn. Assuming you’re worthy, of course, which even about that you could be incredibly wrong. Draco was also exceptionally picky.

With his cloak finally on and his wand safely in his pocket, he paused momentarily before opening the office door, finding he was in a rather mischievous mood.
What the hell? “Say, would you care to take lunch with me tomorrow? You know, somewhere … nice?” The utter confusion, indignation, and then finally, sheer relief that flashed across her face was just hysterical enough to make the babbling nonsense he was sure to endure with that offer well worth it.
She was literally in the palm of his hand. He contemplated testing that theory and telling her to ‘jump.’ And then he laughed loudly, remembering his earlier observations. No, wouldn’t do to have a dead witch on his hands.

Mistaking his laughter as an attempt to ease her worries, she laughed too, albeit nervously. It was a throaty, desperate laugh. Rather unattractive. Not airy or light at all, like … well. There was only one witch he could think of that laughed the way he liked at the moment, but that’s because he was hardly trying. And he hated when she laughed. She was the exception to the rule. Even if she was the first witch he thought of when he thought of the kind of feminine laughter he preferred. Oh, buggering hell.

‘That would be wonderful, Draco” The little blonde simpered. Draco paused. What was it about hearing a woman –any woman—say his name that instantly turned him on? Was he really that vain? …Well, yes. He supposed he was.
“Wonderful,” he said briskly. “Be ready when I come to collect you then.”
As he closed the door behind him he heard her muffled, frantic reply.
“But, what time?”
Draco smirked.


Hermione sat bolt upright in her bed. Clothed only in her cotton knickers and a bed sheet, she was still covered in a layer of sweat.
“Bloody cooling charms,” she muttered sleepily. She hadn’t been able to make one stick since she’d moved into her new flat, and every night had been like a first class trip to the inner circle of hell. Lazily, she rubbed her eyes. And then, discovering what had woken her, she started.

“Crookshanks, NO!” she exclaimed loudly, discovering that the cat had taken full advantage of her open window and was batting furiously at a rather disgruntled and very determined owl. Crookshanks ignored her completely. Hermione, furious that her mangy cat had woken her when sleep was so precious these days, leapt from her bed in disgust, nearly tripping over the tangled mess of sheets.

“Crookshanks, you big bully!” She yelled, crossing the room in quick strides. The cat, onto the fact that his role as predator was quickly diminishing and he would very soon be prey, jumped from the windowsill and scurried from the room in a furry orange blur. Hermione heard a loud thump, and then another more muffled one, indicating that Crook, not as young as he used to be, had ran into something and collapsed.

“He has to have his fun somehow,” she explained softly to the ruffled owl. The bird eyed her wearily. “Poor Narcissus, Malfoy just doesn’t give you a break, does he?” She cooed as she lifted the small white owl into her arms. “Well I’m certainly pleased to see you again.” To the birds delight, she began stroking him softly and cooing in a wonderfully pleasing way.

He happened to adore being doted upon by pretty witches, of which he’d seen plenty. This one especially, however, as he could sense her concern and affection was genuine. Mostly, the awkward attempts at affection his master’s lady friends had given him had clearly been pathetically obvious attempts at affection for his master. As if that would impress him. They just did not understand his Master; not like he did.

This one was much more suitable, if you asked him. But, he also knew, in his bird-way, that the doting would not last long. Unlike the other pretty witches, this one did not seem to like his master very much. Once she read the message he’d been sent to deliver, he suspected she would be furious, as always, and completely forget that he was there, or send him of in a hurry with a horrid reply that would leave his master in a foul mood for hours.
It was really quite amusing, if he thought about it hard, which he often did. He watched as the pretty young woman unraveled the parchment tied to his leg and began reading.


Granger,

So sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, I’ve just wrapped things up with Molly at the office. Such a delightful girl to work with; I rather like the change.
In response to your invitation for lunch (the one in which I am sure you know nothing about. Blaise seems to have become arse over elbow for you and apparently expects me to do the same.) I happen to be free, and being the supportive kind of bloke that I am, if you two are determined to fall in love or whatever sick shit you’ve got planned, I suppose I’ll try and accept it. I’ll see you tomorrow at your place.

-DM

PS. Stop mollifying my bird, will you? He’ll be a Hufflepuff soon. Or worse, a Gryffindor.
PPS. Forgive me if I woke you … but if you were sleeping, just for curiosities sake, what are you wearing?
PPPS. I’ve charmed the parchment. Feel free to answer now.

Hermione grimaced, and then, realising she was in fact standing there in her knickers, and then entertaining the horrifying thought that somehow Malfoy knew she’d be reading his letter completely starkers, she blushed furiously. She hastily grabbed a quill and wrote in bold letters:

‘An expression of severe loathing.’
Seconds later, her words disappeared and were replaced by Malfoy’s tidy script.
‘Mmm. Is that all? …Kinky, Granger.’
Hermione sighed, exasperated, and then, just because, she wrapped herself in the sheet again before responding.
‘Go to hell, Malfoy.’ And, as an afterthought, because she knew Malfoy well enough, she added, ‘And don’t be late.’
Again, her script vanished to be replaced by his. She rolled her eyes as she read.
‘Late? For Hell? Did they tell you I’m expected?’
‘As a matter of fact, they did. And I’m sure it won’t be a party until you get there.’
She could only guess he was amused by this, as it took longer this time for him to respond. When he did, she wished he hadn’t.
‘Darling, you flatter me. But then, what doesn’t? I’ll see you then.’
And abruptly, the parchment exploded. Hermione growled. “That was hardly necessary!” She exclaimed to her empty room, and then, feeling right silly, made her way back to bed.